


I Wanna Taste The Way That You Bleed

by keycchan



Series: Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man After Midnight) [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Actually Surprisingly Fluffy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood Drinking, Enthusiastic Consent, FaceFucking, Getting Together, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28791123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: “Isn’t that why you asked me over?”Quinn looks up at him, raising a brow. “What?”Eliot gestures vaguely at Quinn’s busted arm. “You can’t get out and you broke your dominant arm. What else did you ask me here for? Or, what, got a retrieval job you need me to do in your place?”“Please, like I need your help to punch morons,” Quinn snorts, shutting the fridge. “I asked you here because I’m hungry.”Eliot blinks. Then looks at the fridge, and looks back up. “You want me to cook the steaks for you?”“No, genius. I’m hungry hungry, as in,” and here he puts on a really shit impression of an off-brand TV Dracula, “I vant to suhck your bluuhd, kind of hungry.”Oh.-Quinn's a vampire who needs a snack. Eliot owes him one. There really isn't much else to it.
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Series: Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man After Midnight) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198415
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	I Wanna Taste The Way That You Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> in case you didn't read the tags:
> 
> everything is the same except some people are mythological creatures now apparently. quinn is a vampire. eliot is a hellhound. no, eliot does not fuck or be fucked in his hound form. yes, quinn's fangs are mentioned and sexy. this is literally just porn pls don't expect any actual lore or exposition they're just Like That

Food is life. Food... is life.

Sure, it sounds like a dumb mantra, some sort of eat-pray-love bullshit, but Eliot repeats it because it’s true, and because it’s a hell of a lot better than some of the other crap permanently ingrained into his brain (like: _focus on the eyes and you’ll figure out where the hands are going_ , or, _if making a deal with a fae to always have a lawyer present_ , or, _the price of a soul is more than you could ever possibly pay, even if it’s your own._ ) 

Cooking has saved his life in a lot of ways. Has helped him connect to parts of himself he’d thought died amidst the fire and blood, that he’d thought were sold along with his soul and conscience for a different skin to house the same hollowness. It let him literally and spiritually feed the small, still-human part of himself, the one that still has something close to softness after all these years. Cooking is like fighting — once you know the basics, you just follow your heart and your gut and all of your senses. The main difference is that one tends to hurt and one tends to nourish, and after all the years Eliot’s spent hurting, he thinks he’s allowed to try and balance the scales a bit.

That said, Eliot does _not_ hold that same opinion in regards to baking, so when his phone rings while he’s in the middle of attempting (and failing) his third batch of choux pastry he nearly throws it clear through a wall.

He doesn’t though. Because he’s got self restraint, but also mostly because Hardison spent hours working on it to make it as secure as possible and then enchanting it, and if Eliot breaks it he’s going to have to endure twice that amount of time listening to Hardison bitch about it. Instead he holds it in a near-crushing grip, puts it to his ear, and growls, “This better be important or I’m going to rip your spine clean out your back and use it as a toothpick.”

The voice that comes through the end of the line is not one he expected, but it’s not unfamiliar either. _“Why, hello Eliot, I’m doing fine, thank you for asking, how are you? See, that’s how normal people greet their friends.”_

“It’s two in the morning, Quinn. This ain’t _normal people_ hours,” Eliot huffs. “Besides, since when were we normal people?”

 _“I’m a vampire, this_ is _normal people hours for me.”_ Quinn breezes over easily. _“Are you busy right now?”_

Eliot glances down to his choux pastry. The shell is cracked and defeated, much like Eliot’s patience. Just looking at it makes him want to set his kitchen on fire and call it a night. “No. What’s up?”

_“Great. I’m calling in that favour you owe me. I’ll text you the address shortly. You don’t have to bring anything, just maybe a towel and spare pants.”_

Quinn hangs up before Eliot’s brows even fully finish furrowing, and by the time his face is sufficiently scrunched and confused there’s only a dial tone in his ear. A few seconds later, his phone lights up with a message from an unknown number. It’s the address of some apartment downtown, not that far away from Eliot’s favourite Hainanese restaurant. He wonders if this is some kind of trap. He knows he owes Quinn a solid, but he’d thought he’d at least get more details beyond bringing spare pants. Quinn may have grown to be a pretty solid friend over the last few months, but he’s still not necessarily an ally to the whole team.

Eliot spends all of two minutes thinking very hard about it, takes one more look at his depressing choux pastry, and then sends the details for Hardison to check while he goes to find his third favourite pair of jeans.

* * *

Eliot’s nose wrinkles even before he’s fully arrived at Quinn’s door. He’s always had a good nose for things, but ever since he’d Changed, his sense of smell has become about twenty times more sensitive — and that’s when he’s _not_ in his hound form. It’s useful in a lot of situations: detecting poison in food, finding where hostiles are, figuring out whether Parker’s sneaking sugary cereal into Lucille again and attracting ants, stuff like that. Right now though? It just makes Eliot recoil a little as he knocks on the door. It’s not a _bad_ smell, or dangerous — just powerful. Almost herbal, medicinal, and a little sharp. It’s actually somewhat familiar.

The scent gets even sharper when the door opens, enough to make him cough a little. Quinn at least has the decency to look apologetic about it.

“What the hell is that?” Eliot demands, covering his nose with his sleeve. “Did you piss off a witch or something?”

“Or something,” Quinn sighs, and opens the door wider to let Eliot in with his good arm. The distinction is important, because his right arm is in a cast and slung across his body, and Quinn looks completely unhappy about it. “I pissed off a nurse. Come in, it’s not as strong in here.”

Eliot frowns, but he doesn’t sense anything off, so he does as he’s told and walks inside and is immediately relieved when the smell dies down by at least a half. 

Now that it’s not as strong, Eliot can pinpoint where he’s smelled this scent before. “Gail? You pissed off _Gail?_ Really?”

“You know her?” Quinn shuts the door behind him. “I broke my arm two weeks ago, she set it back for me, and then some Irishmen helpfully broke it again yesterday during a retrieval. I know she’d _told_ me to stay off of the arm for at least a month, but—”

“So she put a ward around your own place?” Eliot grins. “She literally _bound_ you to your own home until your booboo’s all better?”

“Oh, shut up, Spencer,” Quinn snaps. “And it’s not a _ward_ , she just sort of… made it so I can’t get out unless someone invites me out.”

Eliot blinks. “... Did she just reverse vampire rules on you?”

“Yes, and don’t act so shocked, if you know her then you know what she’s like. ‘Healer’ my ass. _Anyway,_ ” Quinn says, unsubtly switching the topics, “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Quinn nods in Eliot’s general direction, and Eliot follows his gaze to the reusable shopping bag he’s got under his arm that says _SAVE THE ORCAS._ He shrugs it off and puts it on the coffee table, let’s Quinn look inside if he wants. “Towel, jeans, like you asked for whatever reason. Some shitty choux pastry I made that I didn’t wanna waste. There’s like, three boxes of ‘em, so if you get sick of them just… throw ‘em out, I guess.”

“Aw, Spencer, you know I can’t resist shitty food,” Quinn grins, picking up the containers of bastard choux with his good arm. “Not that I think this’ll be shitty at all, since you’re the one who made them. C’mon, help me open the fridge so I can stuff these inside.”

Eliot very steadfastly ignores the way the compliment makes something in his chest go warm and happy, and instead follows Quinn to his kitchen, which is nice and small and looks largely unused compared to the rest of the apartment, which is already pretty unused by the looks of it. Furnished, but in a way that definitely says Quinn paid someone to decorate it for him, like out of a cheap interior design catalogue. When Eliot opens up the fridge, it’s almost entirely empty except for cans of convenience store beer and two slabs of thawing, uncooked steaks.

Eliot sighs. “C’mon, man. That’s sad, even for you.”

Quinn rolls his eyes, shoving the containers onto an empty fridge shelf. “Oh, quiet, you bougie bitch. I haven’t used this safehouse in months and I only just came back a few days ago. I’ll go grocery shopping when I _haven’t_ been put under magical house arrest.”

“Or you could ask _me_ to do it. There’s a farmer’s market, like, three blocks from here.” Eliot points out. “Isn’t that why you asked me over?”

Quinn looks up at him, raising a brow. “What?”

Eliot gestures vaguely at Quinn’s busted arm. “You can’t get out and you broke your dominant arm. What else did you ask me here for? Or, what, got a retrieval job you need me to do in your place?”

“Please, like I need your help to punch morons,” Quinn snorts, shutting the fridge. “I asked you here because I’m hungry.”

Eliot blinks. Then looks at the fridge, and looks back up. “You want me to cook the steaks for you?”

“No, genius. I’m _hungry_ hungry, as in,” and here he puts on a really shit impression of an off-brand TV Dracula, “ _I vant to suhck your bluuhd,_ kind of hungry.”

Oh. _Oh._

Eliot doesn’t know why he feels a hot flush of embarrassment at the idea of it, but he doesn’t like it, and so he chooses not to think about it instead. “Why’d you call _me_ up for that? You couldn’t grab someone off the street?”

“Christ, Spencer, I’m a vampire, not a mugger. And if you already forgot, I can’t fucking step even a foot out of my doorway without getting witch-gassed.” Quinn points out. “‘Sides, all the other people I got on my contact list in this area wouldn’t be appreciative of my teeth in their necks.”

“And you thought _I_ would be?” Eliot retorts, crossing his arms. He’s not looking at Quinn’s teeth now. He’s _not._

“I think you’re a good guy who owes me one, and that’ll do for me,” Quinn says with a cocky smirk. “C’mon, pal. All you have to do is stand there, let me at you like a Capri-sun and then we’re even! Simple is simple as.”

“I ain’t a packet of — I’m not a _Capri-sun,_ Quinn, you know what I am, right?” Eliot says in disbelief. “My blood’s different from a regular human’s!”

“Okay, fine, so you’re a _spicy_ Capri-sun,” Quinn sighs and flaps his hand dismissively, before levelling Eliot a look. “Listen, I haven’t gotten a chance to feed in like three weeks, I’m starving, and if I don’t get some blood in me soon I _will_ go feral and rip apart that nice old lady across the hall the next time she knocks on my door offering me fresh bread. Neither of us want that, Spencer. I _love_ her bread. She makes killer milk loaves. So either let me feed off of you, or _you_ go out and bribe some rando for me to feed off of at three in the morning.”

Eliot stares at Quinn. Quinn stares right back, and then cocks a brow. 

Eliot sighs, and moves to tie up his hair.

* * *

“Remind me again why I gotta be shirtless?”

“I mean, do you _want_ to stain that tee of yours?” Quinn points out, and then tosses said white tee onto the closed lid of the toilet seat anyway. “You could, it’s _your_ shirt, but you know it’s a bitch to get bloodstains out of cotton.”

He’s right, unfortunately, and so Eliot just sighs and tries to resist the urge to cross his arms over his bare chest, ending up just at his sides, gripping at the edges of the sink. Quinn seems to find that satisfactory, judging by the non-subtle appreciative looks at Eliot’s shoulders and chest in a way that makes Eliot snort. Then he goes back to trying to tie his hair up one-handed. Eliot watches him for all of thirty seconds before something swells too much in his chest that feels a little like fondness but mostly like impatience, snags the tie from Quinn, and says, “C’mere, turn around.”

“And bend over?” Quinn jokes, but does what he’s told. Eliot rolls his eyes to stifle the smile coming to his mouth, and gets to tying Quinn’s hair.

Once the blond curls are back in their usual ponytail, Quinn spins back around, looking pleased. Eliot’s pleased too, even if he smothers that feeling down. Things have been like this between them since after that dam job ended and they started running into each other more often — by accident at first, and now on purpose, snagging a drink or food together every few weeks or months between jobs. They don’t work on the same team, but as far as Eliot knows Quinn isn’t up to anything that’ll send them on his heels, and besides, it’s nice to have, like. An actual _friend,_ outside of the team.

That said, Eliot’s perfectly aware that lately they’ve been circling something that seems increasingly past the realm of strictly platonic, even if he hasn’t really sat down to address it like a grown fucking adult just yet. But if the unresolved romantic and/or sexual tension between them doesn’t break Eliot, then the way Quinn easily just — steps forward, takes his place between Eliot’s legs and leans down over him sure fucking will.

“Relax, Eliot. You have to unclench or this is gonna hurt more than it needs to,” Quinn says, face just scant inches from Eliot’s. 

It’d be embarrassing, but the faint tinge of pink on those cheeks means Eliot isn’t alone in the boat, so he just levels Quinn a deadpan look, says “You’d make a shitty nurse,” and then tilts his head a little to the side, exposing the side of his neck. He doesn’t miss the way Quinn’s eyes are immediately drawn to the movement, shimmering gold like a cat’s and as wide as dinner plates, vampiric fangs now fully extended and peeking from between pink lips that part when he breathes an _oh._ Eliot smirks. He’s a little warm himself, but he’ll take satisfaction in the fact he’s not the only one.

And then Quinn ducks his face down to nose at Eliot’s jaw, and then it’s Eliot’s turn to go _oh._

Quinn doesn’t waste any time, for better or for worse. Eliot just feels hot breath on his throat one second, and then the faint sweep of a tongue against his pulse the next, and then the scrape of teeth. It makes Eliot tense, a little, but in a way that sends a shiver down his spine — which is a _perfectly normal reaction_ , thanks, to having a vampire basically about to make out with his jugular. (Yes, Eliot knows the other perfectly normal reaction is to get freaked out by the inherent danger of it all, call it off, and go down the street to find someone he can pay off to be a cup of kool-aid. No, he’s still not going to do it. He won’t be one of _those guys_ who freak out 7-11 cashiers by skulking around being weird this late at night.)

Then, in a move that actually is surprisingly smooth, Eliot feels sharpness sinking into his flesh. A quick, intense burst of pain, and then just — a low undercurrent of what he can only describe as _really fucking good._

He knows, cerebrally, that this is probably just part of the vampire thing. Knows that vampires secrete a… well, something calming, through their teeth when they’re feeding, so that their ‘victims’ won’t wriggle around in pain. Makes it painless, or at the very least makes it feel kind of like having two big syringes stuck into one’s neck for a blood draw after a gentle swipe of topical numbing cream. Eliot’s been stabbed, impaled, run over, burnt alive, and at one point, made to eat Parker’s experimental cereal mix which probably would’ve rocket propelled the foot clean off of a diabetic. 

This is nothing by comparison, and yet Eliot can’t ignore the dull spark slowly sharpening along his spine. Electricity crackling from the point of contact in a way he didn’t anticipate, a jolt of heat running through him. He feels exposed suddenly, vulnerable, but mostly very stupid.

It’s just. It’s a _lot of Quinn._ And Eliot’s not some rookie in the whole liking-and-lusting regard; he’s in his forties, goddamn it, he’s been around enough models and flight attendants and generally hot people of all genders and parts that he could be honoured as a venerable slut. He _knows_ he thinks Quinn is hot. He _knows_ he finds Quinn charming, in suits and sweats alike, in the way he knows how to tackle Eliot to the ground, in the way he handles guns, in the way he laughs and loves old spaghetti westerns, in that deep swing of Southern lilt in his voice that comes out when he’s frustrated but especially when he’s around Eliot. 

It’s just that — for all intents and purposes right now — he’s, as Quinn puts it, a Capri-sun, which is not a sexy thought no matter how you spin it. Quinn’s not even _trying_ to make it hot. Quinn is literally just eating, hair tied back and arm in a sling and still fully clothed in a tee-shirt and sweats, and Quinn’s mouth on Eliot’s throat has about as much finesse as a high school jock trying to figure out how to give a hickey for the first time — a lot of wet, a lot of wide-mouthed sucking. The teeth in his neck should have all the sexiness of having blood drawn at a clinic. Eliot’s view over Quinn's shoulder is just the tiled bathroom walls, stark white and incredibly boring. The whole place still smells vaguely herbal and now a little like floor cleaner. 

Eliot _really_ shouldn’t be as turned on as he is, hands gripping at the edge of the sink and trying not to break it because his knees are starting to go just a little bit weak.

 _Hell of a time for a revelation,_ Eliot thinks vaguely, but not well, because it feels like he can feel every beat of his heart bass-boosted, with every pulse of blood that’s surging into Quinn’s hot mouth. His body feels fuzzy, blurred and soft at the edges; not necessarily woozy, because Eliot knows down to the marrow of his bones that he could very easily shove Quinn off and wrestle him to the ground in a triangle lock in less than three seconds, but. Just. 

It feels _good_. It feels so fucking good in a way that would make Eliot embarrassed, ashamed of himself, if his brain weren’t currently turning to syrup. Quinn’s body all around him and surrounding him, his good hand framing Eliot’s side, Quinn’s mouth against Eliot’s throat, and even the simultaneously dull and sharp pain of the fangs in his neck, piercing skin, drawing blood that the hot suction of Quinn’s mouth is drinking up, every swallow clear as a thunder to Eliot’s sensitive ears.

It’s so good that Eliot’s mouth breaks open, gasps. Doesn’t even notice the noise he’s made until it’s already out of his throat — small, cut-off, and unmistakable turned on. For a split second, Quinn pauses, and Eliot gets struck with the cold fear of _oh, shit, too far, I’m makin’ this weird_ — and then the train of thought gets absolutely obliterated by the feeling of Quinn digging his fangs in _farther._ Deeper, hotter suction against Eliot’s neck somehow, as if that were even _possible,_ and the warm body all around him as he crowds even closer until all Eliot can see and breathe and sense is just Quinn, and Eliot’s brain melts down and out his ears. 

His body feels hot, feels like a fever, the sudden uptick in intensity making his body clench without even thinking about it, barely the presence of mind to stop his hips from jerking. With every surge of blood Quinn laps up, every twinge of pain of the fangs sunken into his skin, Eliot can feel it bypass all common sense and go directly down south. Something goes _crack_ in the background and Eliot can’t even care about it. It all feels like something heard through water, distant and faded and dulled by everything else around him.

It feels like an eternity. It’s actually closer to twenty two seconds, because even hot and dazed and being literally eaten alive by a vampire he’s always got a track on everything. It doesn’t matter anyway, because time feels like a stupid concept by the time Quinn finally, _finally_ finishes, the feeling of fangs retracting from the flesh of Eliot’s throat making Eliot shudder and groan involuntarily, goosebumps of the best kind skimming along the backs of his arms like static. And then Quinn has the gall to _lick_ at Eliot’s throat, at the wound still oozing blood, laps at it in a way that makes Eliot’s jaw clench from how good it feels, and then pulls back to look down at Eliot’s pants with gold eyes blown wide and a mouth smeared with blood and says, “Holy shit, you _are_ hard.”

And then, before Eliot can snap at him in embarrassment, Quinn drops to his knees so damn fast it’s a miracle he still has kneecaps, and says, “Please let me suck you off.”

 _You already sucked a lot outta me,_ a small part of Eliot wants to joke. 

_What do you mean,_ let _you?_ Another part of Eliot asks in wonder.

The bigger part of Eliot though, watching Quinn down pretty on his knees in front of him with his mouth smeared in Eliot’s blood and looking an entirely different type of hungry, says, “Yeah, _fuck,_ c’mon—”

Thankfully, Quinn doesn’t waste time to tease or joke like he usually does. His good hand comes up to undo Eliot’s belt like a pro, and then either because his other arm’s busted or because he’s out here to literally _kill_ Eliot, Quinn unzips Eliot’s jeans with his _teeth._

Eliot groans like it’s been punched out of him. He can feel every tinny vibration of the zipper skimming over his clothed bulge, every huff of breath out of Quinn’s nose as he does. He feels his abs clench and tremble when Quinn yanks Eliot’s briefs down to his knees and exposes him completely. There’s absolutely zero doubt about how Eliot’s feeling about all this. His cock’s already hard and throbbing, desperate from just a couple of minutes of probably the most intense necking Eliot’s ever been through, and Quinn’s staring at it like he can’t quite believe it. 

_Quinn, c’mon man, do something,_ Eliot says in his brain, not quite begging but uncomfortably close to doing so. 

“Hrrnngghllglgghh,” Eliot says with his mouth, because Quinn’s fit the head of Eliot’s cock into his mouth and sucks at it like he could draw Eliot’s soul out through his balls.

Quinn doesn’t hold back. At _all._ He apparently fucks like he fights — no bars held, aiming right for where it hurts and striking it over and over, more speed than stamina but with an almost painful efficacy. Eliot’s proud to say he’s got enough experience under his belt that he doesn’t blow immediately like a lesser man would, but it’s not by much. Quinn’s bobbing his head, the suction hot as sin and unrelenting everytime he moves on the upstroke, tongue every so often dipping into Eliot’s sensitive slit and making Eliot moan like he’s never been touched before. His good hand’s moved to fondle at Eliot’s balls, tugging just slightly and somehow still making Eliot’s stomach fall through itself. There’s spit running down Quinn’s chin, dripping down in sticky strings connecting it to Eliot’s cock in a way that makes Eliot fear for a future pavlovian response to spider’s webs, and there’s still some of Eliot’s own blood smeared around the edges of Quinn’s stretched-wide mouth, and oh, _fuck_ , if that doesn’t make Eliot’s cock twitch even more.

Eliot should _not_ feel this hot under the collar with a _literal vampire’s_ mouth around his very vulnerable dick. He should be feeling queasy and uneasy about the sight of blood around Quinn’s mouth, his _own_ blood, now smearing around his _own_ shaft. He should be reacting to this with the same amount of trepidation and hesitation of seeing anyone else with sharper-than-normal canines fellate a banana and then bite it clean in half. He should _not be into this,_ but when Quinn pulls off with an obscene wet sound and meets Eliot’s eyes — and god, what a sight, with his mouth wet and swollen and gorgeous like that and eyes half lidded — Eliot gets hit with a wave of arousal so strong his cock _jerks_ , a hot spurt of pre-cum landing across the pillow of Quinn’s lips, pooling pearlescent on the cupid’s bow of it.

It makes Eliot actually stop for a second. The image of it is so hot it destroys his brain. Eliot’s dead. He must be. Quinn’s a fucking liar, he’s no vampire, he’s an _incubus_ because he got on his knees for Eliot and now Eliot’s dead.

At least he’s not alone, judging by the sound that comes out of Quinn’s throat, deep and groaning and desperate. He still feels it’s a little unfair, how unmoored he feels, when Quinn’s tongue peeks out to lick at the pre, drawing it back into his mouth to swallow. Eliot wonders if Quinn’s even really drank enough to sate him, because Eliot’s blood feels burning hot under his skin, full, rushing and roaring in his ears at how Quinn’s looking at him right now. He smells smoke and wonders if its from how much he’s overheating.

“Eliot,” Quinn says, voice sinfully hoarse and aroused enough to feel like a gut punch, “Your hand.”

Eliot blinks. It takes a solid second for the proper cylinders to fire, and when it does he looks down to where his hands are: still on the sides of the sink, and apparently clenched so hard that there’s fireworks of deep cracks in it, ashy black handprints spreading out around where Eliot’s lost enough of his cool to literally burn marks into the porcelain. It’s actually pretty fucking embarrassing. He’s usually better about controlling that. He’s a hellhound, not an animal, but god if Quinn isn’t methodically picking at his self restraint and snapping each fibre cleanly in half.

“Sorry,” Eliot says anyway, because he means it and he really didn’t intend to come here and cause property damage, “I—”

 _“Eliot,”_ Quinn says again, now more frustrated, “Your _hand._ ”

When Eliot still doesn’t get it, Quinn reaches his good hand out and takes one of Eliot’s — and it takes a little effort, because Eliot’s muscles are pretty locked up in an act of self restraint — and then just. Places it firmly on Quinn’s head. Looks up at Eliot with equal parts determination and desperation, and all parts concentrated arousal.

 _Oh,_ thinks Eliot.

“You can grip, you can pull, but if you yank or burn it I’m going to bite your cock off,” Quinn says breathlessly, “Also, I don’t have a gag reflex.”

And then, because he apparently still doesn’t trust Eliot to get it on his own, proceeds to swallow Eliot to the root and _stay there._

Thing is, Eliot is used to holding himself back. It just comes with the package of trying to be a reformed hellhound, whatever the fuck that means outside of the context of Eliot specifically. It’s not even as unhealthy as it sounds — it reminds him that there’s still a human part to him, that he still has control over himself. It takes more strength to rein yourself in than it is to let yourself go, after all. He does it often, almost every single day — making sure he doesn’t grip things too strongly or push too roughly, making sure he doesn’t leave a literal blazing trail when he walks away from something he’s pissed about. He does let himself go sometimes, when it’s appropriate or when he needs it, but for the most part he’s content to stay in his human form and keep even that form’s dulled-down powers in check. 

( _“It takes all of his control_ not _to kill somebody! You’ve just made him more dangerous. You’ve taken the safety off the gun!”_ Sophie had cried to that one asshole during that one job in Nebraska, and, like. Yeah, it was a bit dramatic, but she’d gotten the gist of it right.)

Basically, Eliot’s gone through a lot in the last few years that’ve tested the limits of restraint on himself, including but _not_ limited to letting Damien Moreau escape to San Lorenzo that first time instead of tearing his throat out for turning him into this monster —

But oh, god. 

Eliot doesn’t know where he’s found the willpower now not to immediately come down Quinn’s throat.

It sure as shit ain’t thanks to Quinn, who’s making it everything but easy by slowly suckling around Eliot’s length, throat fluttering and convulsing around Eliot like he’s made for it. There’s tears gathered in Quinn’s lashes but a starved smirk in his eyes. It makes Eliot pant like he’s run a race, and then the bastard has the audacity to lap his tongue along the underside of Eliot’s cock, then takes Eliot even _deeper_ into his throat somehow so he can also lap a little at Eliot’s balls.

“Remember,” Eliot grits out, breathlessly aroused and hopelessly turned on, “You asked for this.”

Quinn gives a musical hum and swallows around Eliot again like a challenge. Eliot winds his fingers carefully in Quinn’s hair, grips it, and slowly pulls Quinn off of him. Quinn doesn’t let up the suction until he’s fully off Eliot’s dick, a string of saliva still connecting them like the world’s horniest tether. His mouth is a smirking, shiny, swollen mess, smeared with spit and pre and a little blood, and his eyes are glazed over in a challenging sort of lust that makes Eliot desperate to throw him against the wall and fuck him within an inch of his life (or _be_ fucked within an inch of his life, Eliot’s _really_ not picky in this situation.)

Then, once the throbbing head of Eliot’s cock just sits neat on the pillow of Quinn’s lower lip, he says, “Open up,” and thrusts in.

He doesn’t shove all the way in at first despite what Quinn had said, because Eliot really doesn’t want to risk hurting him, but judging by the way Quinn makes the filthiest noise Eliot’s ever heard by it, Eliot doesn’t need to care. So he throws all caution to the wind and keeps a firm grip on Quinn’s hair, and fucks his throat like he means it.

It’s hot. It’s so _hot,_ slick and tight and _perfect,_ and with every thrust Eliot can feel the way Quinn’s making greedy noises around his shaft, Quinn’s good hand now on Eliot’s ass and gripping at it as if he could somehow pull _more_ of Eliot into his mouth when Eliot’s already balls deep. There’s no finesse to this, but Quinn’s still trying to flutter his tongue against the underside of Eliot’s cock, drooling so much that there’s spit on the linoleum flooring. It’s so fucking hot in so many ways, Eliot feels like he’s burning from the inside out, a tension coiling delicious low in his belly, especially with the way he hits the back of Quinn’s throat each time, dick tracing every ridge and contour of his palate.

When Eliot looks down, Quinn catches his eye and groans. His cheeks are so _red,_ his eyes still vampire-golden but blown wide. Dark like he can’t think, dark like he’s _turned on._ Then Eliot looks lower, and sees Quinn tenting so hard in his sweats that there’s a dark grey stain steadily growing on it, and that’s what drives Eliot over the edge.

“I’m gonna come,” Eliot bites out, teeth gnashed as the fire inside him roars and threatens to swallow him whole, pulling out of Quinn’s mouth, “Sweetheart, oh, fuck, _Quinn_ —”

Quinn keeps his mouth open, and Eliot burns it all to his memory forever: the feeling of the pleasure coiled tight inside him exploding, incinerating him from the inside out; the sight of his cock jerking, ropes of cum striping Quinn’s face, painting his open mouth and tongue and cheek and almost hitting his eye; the _sound_ that Quinn makes, the quiet needy groan and the _oh fuck, oh fuck, Eliot,_ when Eliot’s done. Eliot doesn’t even know who moves first after that — Quinn scrambles to his feet at the same time Eliot reaches down to help tug him up, and then they’re both surging forward to meet halfway in a wet, hungry kiss that tastes too much of Eliot’s own release and blood.

He licks into Quinn’s mouth like he could find his name there somehow, and Quinn groans, punched-out and whining, thrusting against Eliot’s thigh. The dark stain on the straining tent of his sweats is growing bigger, and when Eliot sucks on Quinn’s tongue, Quinn yanks his pants down so fast it’s a miracle they don’t tear. Eliot parts so he can look down at it — hard enough to cut glass, erect and throbbing and dripping pre-cum, angry red and straining against where Quinn’s wrapped a hand around it. Eliot’s mouth waters at the sight of it. He’s not gonna be hard again for a little while longer, but god if he doesn’t want that in him at some point, and some point _soon._

Quinn doesn’t last long. His hands are a blur for a few seconds over his cock, and then he makes a punched-out sound that Eliot’s never heard before and suddenly desperate to hear again, coming in thick ropes on Eliot’s jeans, keening and panting against Eliot’s collarbone.

“Eliot,” Quinn gasps, head ducking down to lean against Eliot’s shoulder, stroking himself through the aftershocks, “Eliot, fuck, _Eliot_ —”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Eliot says against the side of Quinn’s neck, a hand surging up to clamp on the back of it possessively, “You look so good coming on me, baby, want you to come _in_ me—”

Quinn shakes through the last of his orgasm, and Eliot gently tugs at his hair again to make him look up so Eliot can capture his mouth again, kissing him hard and all-consuming. Quinn gives as good as he gets before he finally breaks away, foreheads pressed together, panting against Eliot’s mouth, Eliot’s cum still on his cheek and jaw. He looks goddamn beautiful like this, and Eliot feels his lungs flay open. He’s over-sensitive, done-in in the best possible way, and as Quinn’s eyelids flutter open to meet Eliot’s, he waits for the punch of regret. The _oh shit,_ the realization that this isn’t what either of them came here for, that Eliot made it weird somehow.

It never comes. Instead, Quinn’s face breaks into a grin, and that makes _Eliot’s_ mouth grin too, and then suddenly they’re laughing against each other, dicks out in Quinn’s boring bathroom and softening, Eliot’s cum still mostly glazed on Quinn’s face like a doughnut.

“Why, Eliot,” Quinn says cheekily, “Dinner _and_ a show? You shouldn’t have.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said I had to _let you_ suck my dick,” Eliot laughs, before looking down at the mess on his jeans. “Goddamn it, look at what you did.”

Quinn gestures at the mess on his face.

Eliot rolls his eyes, and this time doesn’t try to hide the fondness in them. “Okay, but it’s easier to wash it off your face than out of denim.”

Quinn grins. “Aren’t you glad I told you to bring the spare jeans?”

* * *

“These aren’t bad, actually,” Quinn says after swallowing a mouthful of Eliot’s failed choux pastry, “Taste is there.”

“‘S not good enough,” Eliot sighs, shoving the last plate in the dishwasher and shutting it. “It’s supposed to be light and flaky, not… whatever the hell that is.”

Once he’s done he makes his way back to the couch, where Quinn’s lounging in a new shirt, new sweats, container of sad choux pastry balanced on his lap. His fangs are retracted, his eyes gone back to their usual oaky tones. Eliot wonders how screwed he actually is, now that he’s had Quinn break his ribs and had Quinn chomp on his neck and is now having Quinn eat his shitty choux pastry and still thinks, _that guy. I want that guy._

Quinn’s hair’s still damp from the shower too, leaving dark spots on the dark brown of the couch top. The ends are drying extra curly, and Eliot thinks about touching them. Then realizes that he can, surely, and so he does — sinking down on the spot next to Quinn, arm around the back like he’s trying to put a move on a highschool sweetheart, fingers playing with the curly ends. He’d worry about overstepping, for assuming, but Quinn’s pleased, almost smug smile at him curbstomps that doubt before it can even sprout.

Eliot’s whipped as hell. He never knew he’d ever meet someone he’d want to fight and fuck and feed fresh strawberries to quite this much until he met Quinn.

(To be fair, he didn’t think he’d pop a boner strong enough to break concrete by being fed on by a vampire until he met Quinn, so.)

“Baking’s a bitch, you know that. Knead it too much or too little, open the oven door a little too fast, and it decides to go fuck itself,” Quinn readily acknowledges, shutting the container and putting it back on the coffee table. “But it’s also your fault for trying to make — what was it?”

“Gateau St. Honoré,” Eliot answers.

Quinn snaps his fingers. “Yes, that bitch. That’s _four_ different pastry elements in a cake that ain’t even a cake, pal. The hell were you thinking? You don’t even _like_ baking.”

“I don’t _don’t_ like baking,” Eliot frowns, “And Parker asked for it, and I figured I could at least try…”

“You spoil your team too much,” Quinn chides, but Eliot sees it now — the fondness behind the words, the smile in his eyes. “Hell. You spoil _me_ too much. Dinner, a show, steaks, and now dessert too?”

“Like hell this counts as a dessert. Next time around I’ll make something actually good,” Eliot immediately argues, before realizing what he’s said. Judging by the way Quinn’s looking at him, Quinn’s realized it too.

His eyes are wide, and for once Eliot sees a hint of what he’d been dreading the whole night — fear. Not a lot of it, just… a glimmer of it, behind Quinn’s eyes, looking at Eliot with a hesitation that makes Eliot uncomfortable.

But, also for once, Eliot thinks he’s okay with it. Because sometimes you have to be uncomfortable for things to progress, and god, they’ve wasted enough time already. The lives they live, there’s no guarantee they’ll make it to another day. He knows Quinn has to be scared about like… _committing,_ like this, because Eliot knows he is too, but there’s only so much more dancing around each other they can do before one of ‘em starts tripping over their own feet.

Also, while Eliot’s got more blood than the average human (on account of not being one), they really can’t keep taking the next steps in their relationship via bloodletting. It’s just not healthy.

So Eliot takes a deep breath, buckles in, and asks, “We gonna talk about that?”

“About what? Your apparent vampire kink you failed to notify me about?” Quinn teases, very obviously skirting the topic. “Not that I mind, by the way. You had my enthusiastic consent.”

Eliot rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his own cheeks flare with heat and powering through it. “I know, you were gagging for it. And it’s _not_ a vampire kink! I didn’t even know about any of that until it happened!”

“Then what was it? Was it a fangs thing? A biting thing?” Quinn lists down. “A blood thing?”

“It was a you thing,” Eliot admits, and lets the mortifying ordeal of being known just… wash over him. “I don’t know about the rest, I mean. Probably yeah to like, one of those, but it was — mostly it was a you thing.”

He wonders if he should slow down. Take this more casually, a subtler way Quinn would maybe react better to. He knows Quinn’s got a lot of his own hangups, and for all Eliot’s fucked the guy’s throat so good that he’s now wearing his spare jeans, he doesn’t actually want to push Quinn into anything he doesn’t want to do. _Especially_ with something as big as this.

It seems, though, that there’s nothing to be scared of. Because Quinn’s eyes actually light up at that — smile turning from something smug into something softer, more pleased, in a way that makes Eliot think that Quinn isn’t even aware it’s happening. It’s cute as hell. Eliot’s fucked.

“Glad I could be your kink awakening, Spencer,” Quinn chuckles, “I guess we’ll figure out the details as we go along.”

Eliot grins right back, helplessly fond. “Sure. You gonna let me take you out to eat first though? Food that _isn’t_ from my bloodstream or your shitty fridge?”

“Like you’re complaining about the way I feed,” Quinn grins, and it shows off the fangs that he’s extended. Just the sight of them makes a _frisson_ of heat sing down Eliot’s spine and directly to his crotch, which is probably the beginning signs of some fucked up mixed wiring for later.

What makes it better (or worse, depending on who you’re asking) is that Eliot can _see_ the difference in Quinn’s smile. Before teasing, and now a little twitchy, like he’s trying hard to suppress how happy he is and failing miserably. Eliot feels the terrific need to taste it, without his own cum and blood in the way.

First, though, he needs an answer. So he reaches out, takes Quinn’s good hand gently, and meets his gaze as plainly as he can. “Seriously. Quinn. Yes or no?”

Quinn doesn’t look away. Eliot can see the calculations in Quinn’s head, the one wondering if this is a good idea, if any of this is worth it. Eliot can also see the exact moment Quinn makes his decision, because he changes his grip on Eliot’s hand. Brings it up to his mouth, scraping the soft skin of Eliot’s inner wrist lightly with his teeth, and then kissing it as his pulse flutters. When Quinn looks up, his eyes are still just that same shade of oaky brown, and yet it scares and thrills Eliot more than the vampiric gold ever did.

“Yes, obviously,” Quinn breathes, a laugh on his lips making him the most beautiful thing Eliot’s ever seen, “Yes, of course, jackass.”

Something breaks in Eliot’s chest, much in the same way the first time they’d met and fought and exchanged broken ribs, except this time it’s soft. Soft and good and _warm,_ hopeful and horrifying all at once, in a way that works out for Eliot because he’s getting too old to care about being precious with his dignity. Not when there’s something infinitely better in front of him. So he kisses Quinn on the mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his jawline, and finally on his throat — at the same spot Quinn had sunken his teeth into Eliot’s, a perfect parallel. Eliot can feel the trembling breath Quinn takes, and makes the easiest decision he’s made all year.

“Yeah,” Eliot says, cupping the back of Quinn’s neck again, in a parallel of what he did in the bathroom but somehow all the more vulnerable. “Let me take you out to lunch. A lot of lunches. Dinner and a show, however way you want that, whenever you want it. _Proper_ dessert.”

Quinn grins, and kisses Eliot on the forehead. “What kind of dessert?”

Eliot smiles, warm all over. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

“Gateau St. Honoré?” 

“Go fuck yourself.”

**Author's Note:**

> for [my eliot,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero) who is pretty much the only reason i am back and still writing for this rarepair! i don't even care about vampires!! and YET!!! (i say all this with full affection, i did have fun writing this)
> 
> i thought out so much lore about this au and then proceeded to do fuckall with it bc that's just who i am khsdfbsdf anyway!!! gb stay safe and i hope you enjoy!


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